


disarmed

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, some subtle sexual innuendos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: Jon teaches Sansa how to fight, and she's surprisingly good at it.(written for the 3 for 300 prompts)





	disarmed

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the first fic for the 3 for 300! I accidentally deleted the messages in my inbox, so I don't know who sent this prompt. If it was yours, let me know!  
> prompt: Sansa asks Jon (her husband and king) to teach her to fight with a sword and she's surprisingly good at it, proud Jon and fluffly Jonsa please ❤️  
> (ARYA AND BRAN ARE NOT MURDEROUS AND CREEPY FOR OBVIOUS REASONS IN THIS FIC)

“I’d like to learn how to fight.”

Jon raises his eyebrows and sets aside his ale. “Why?”

Sansa neatly spreads blackberry jam across a piece of bread. Her hair is in a simple braid, and she wears a plain light blue dress with an embroidered shawl draped across her shoulders.

“I don’t know. It seems useful. I’d want to be able to protect myself if I must,” she says.

“My love, you know that I’ll always protect you. I’d fall on my sword if you asked.” Jon reaches over to intertwine their fingers.

“Gods, stop being so dramatic. All she did was ask you to teach her how to fight, and you’re spouting out a fucking song,” Arya grumbles over her plate of eggs and sausage. “If you don’t teach her, I will.”

“That settles it, I suppose.” He kisses his wife’s cheek. “We can start this afternoon.”

Bran sips his tea. “Can I watch? I’d like to see Sansa knocking Jon silly.”

“Sansa couldn’t do that,” says Arya. “Jon is an experienced fighter, it would take someone great to knock him down.”

“I’ll bet ten silver dragons that you’re wrong.”

“I’ll take that bet!”

“Are you really so doubtful of me, sister?” Sansa asks, popping a strawberry in her mouth. “I’m simply  _wounded.”_

They laugh at each other and begin discussing the latest gossip in Winterfell. It’s never hard to find a reason to be happy anymore. The war is in the past, and they’ve all survived their share of struggles. With the dawn came a new chance for happiness, and the Starks had taken every chance they could get.

Come midday, Jon stands out in the training yard, fiddling with his belt as he waits for Sansa. Life in Winterfell is busy as usual. Maids carry baskets of clothes to wash and mend, and squires cross the yard quickly to deliver assorted items. Tormund and Davos are chatting over by the armory, while Brienne polishes her armor nearby.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I had to finish stitching these pants.”

Sansa is in an outfit similar to his, but sewn more precisely to fit her body. The sight of her in a jerkin and trousers is enough to make him hard, and he shifts his stance so that Tormund won’t keel over and die laughing. She carries Oathkeeper, glinting proudly in the afternoon light.

“You can’t use that,” he says. “You should start with a sparring sword.” Sansa huffs indignantly.

“Brienne said it was fine if I borrowed it. Besides,  _you’ve_  got Valyrian steel. Who’s to say you won’t cut me?”

He laughs at how she lifts her chin with pride. “I’d never dream of hurting my lady wife.”

Tormund grumbles at them to  _get on with it, already,_ and Jon begins teaching her the basics. She handles them surprisingly well. Brienne watches and comments, giving Sansa advice on where to keep her shoulders or place her feet.

“It’s a bit like dancing, isn’t it?” Sansa says, repeating a blocking movement. Her posture is impeccable, and Jon struggles to make corrections. It’s almost enchanting, the way she moves with such grace and purpose, like a bird in flight.

“We can start sparring, if you like,” he says.

“Do you think I’m ready?” she asks.

“Aye, you’re a quick learner. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. We can start slow.”

“In my experience, I thought you liked it fast.” Sansa winks at him, her sapphire blue eyes like two oceans inviting him to drown.

“I… er…”

“C’mon!” Arya and Bran are sitting near Brienne, watching intensely. “I’m betting on you, Jon!”

Jon disarms her easily the first few times, but she begins to pick up on his pattern of movements, sidestepping his advances and dodging his swings. Jon is a talented swordsman, but he finds it hard to fight when it’s Sansa’s beautiful face across from him.

“You’re being too gentle,” she says. “I’m not made of paper. I won’t get better if you’re not trying.”

He tries to gather his wits, but it proves impossible. She’s getting better at predicting his actions and perfecting her own. Sansa takes a swing at his shoulder, and he dodges and strikes the flat side of his sword at her knees. She falls over unceremoniously.

“Shit, Sansa, I’m sorry,” he says, offering her a hand up. Brushing her hair out of her face, she composes herself and brandishes Oathkeeper.

“I’m fine. You don’t have to apologize. You need to be-”

“I don’t want to be too rough. If you got hurt-”

 _“-harder,_  Jon.”

He gulps, while a confident grin spreads over his wife’s face. Their blades clash again. His mind begins to wander, and he finds himself staring at the soft curve of her neck. She’s got such a pretty neck, with her smooth skin that reminds him of pure silk. He’s spent many nights trailing kisses down her neck, leaving small marks that she’d fuss over the next morning.

 _He’d quite like to see her in nothing but that jerkin,_  he thinks, and is already falling victim to the sweet fantasies in his head.

A sudden burst of pain in his arm jars him back into reality. Sansa has sliced through his sleeve, leaving a substantial gash in his upper arm. He looses his footing and tumbles to the ground, while Longclaw lands in the mud.

“Fuck!” he yelps, in a pitch that’s too high to be dignified. Tormund cackles in delight.

“Oh, Jon, I’m so sorry!” Sansa cries, immediately kneeling by his side. “You might need stitches for that- gods, I’m an idiot-”

He cuts her off by crashing his lips against hers. She melts into his arms with a needy moan. One of her hands rests on his upper thigh, travelling upwards and making his breath hitch. For a while, it’s just them, forgetting the world as they stay tangled in each other’s arms.

“Oi, Snow! Enough of that! This is a courtyard, not a bloody bedroom,” Tormund grumbles, shaking his head. Davos is looking away politely. Arya hands over ten silver dragons to Bran while complaining bitterly.

“I think I’m done with training for today,” says Jon, barely repressing the urge to whisk her away and have her against any available surface.

“I’m not. I’ve already knocked you to the ground, and I think I’d like to do it again.” She presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth and fetches her sword, leaving him thoroughly disarmed.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if ya liked it!


End file.
